


No Legal Blessing

by Zoya1416



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Assassination, Gen, Regime Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Snapcase has ruled Ankh-Morpork for 14 years of terror. Today that will end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Legal Blessing

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Terry Pratchett's. I'm only borrowing it.

"... had always wondered how...had felt, that frosty morning when he picked up the axe that had no legal blessing when he prepared to sever what people thought was a link between man and deity”—abridged quote from Jingo

Havelock Vetinari did not wonder about killing a king tonight, because this was no king, this was a debased animal who'd tormented Ankh-Morpork for too many years. He did not wonder whether he should wait for better opportunities, or whether this action would gain him the Patricianship, although he most strenuously hoped it would. 

The last straw for Vetinari had been the killing of a young servant girl. For no known reason, except that he was an insane bully, Snapcase had spotted a girl coming back to a mansion from a market, and amused himself, not in the usual terrible way, but by simply having his carriage run her down in the street. “It was a accident—these streets are so terribly slippery!"

People had had heard what had happened. If Vetinari had not been in with his stiletto, there would have been fire and blood this morning. Men were close to building barricades again. He'd been there at the Glorious Revolution of May 25th, and that had had only a few deaths. It would have had more, if he hadn't frightened Lord Winder to death. No one then would believe that Snapcase would turn first despotic and later frankly psychotic and unbelievably cruel. He was only mildly surprised to find that no one was ahead of him.

He had a mountain of paperwork he'd slowly accumulated over the last fourteen years, about the sins and evils and lies; brutalities, betrayals and sheer human meanness of the man on the carpet in front of him. But in the end he hadn't used it, because the sadist had overreached himself.

An axe would have been much more satisfying than his stiletto had been.

Part of him wanted to carve the man up, cut his neck, gut him like a fish, and otherwise cause him a few moments of the pain he'd caused so many others. Man lived like a sheik, in rich robes, many rings, thick carpets throughout all his personal quarters. (although Vetinari had known sheiks who lived much quieter, working kings.) 

Without this man Ankh-Morpork would begin to heal. It would become more profitable. Citizens would live in relative peace. It was high past time to open the city, let in immigrants who would work here, raise their families, and open ethnic restaurants for their kind. Dwarfs could work here, packing in three houses where normal humans would use two. Trolls would be welcome, also, and for their strength houses would rise in the fabricating areas which used heavy labor. A richer Ankh-Morpork would be stronger and more able to protect herself. Geographically she had no defense, built on loamy soil without mountains or rocks for a keep. The wharves and docks were completely open. But with wealth—she could control others.

Using an axe would not have let him leave by the window, quickly climbing down and then running to the shadow of a dark tree at the front of the Palace. He needed to be the first person inside the Palace after the Watch, but couldn't be seen before then. He'd worn his usual grays and greens while he climbed inside, but now rolled them up and pushed it into the hole he'd seen in a large tree. This was no chance quick finding--he'd studied the grounds endlessly.

The guard dogs at the Palace had welcomed him as their usual bringer of steaks, someone they liked. This time they'd fallen asleep easily.

Today Patrician Snapcase was going to (had been going to, he reminded himself with grim satisfaction), receive another honor which he'd brow-beaten out of a Guild. Why he should want the Alchemists to honor him was questionable, but most likely they hadn't given him enough money lately, and this was his way of getting it. Vetinari shook his head. When he had control of the guilds...later, later.

Now he heard the scream of the housemaid in the Patrician's room. Now a footman was racing to the nearest Watchman, and... now they were coming back.

Vetinari entered the Palace a few minutes or so after the Watch.  
“What's happened here? Is there a problem with his Lordship?”  
The Watch didn't seem suspicious of Vetinari, which was how he'd carefully planned today. He had a legitimate appointment for this early time, having rapidly arranged it two days earlier. He was still quite young, only thirty-two, and could act much younger and innocently bewildered.

“Lord Vetinari, good, quite good you're here so early,” said Captain Quirke. “Lord Snapcase has been murdered in his bed!”

“And you must not rest from finding his killer!” said Vetinari, gesturing toward the city at large like a magician distracting an audience. “You must hurry, or he might be getting further away from the Palace!”

This was the part of his plan which concerned Vetinari the most. No innocent man who'd complained in his pub once too loudly about Lord Snapcase must be harmed. If someone was arrested, he would found a way to take them from the Tanty for his own questioning. If they then disappeared--it would surprise no one.

The other lords and leaders of the city were filling the large table in the Rats Chamber. They loudly bickered about the Patrician's successor. In the middle Vetinari was raising arguments like the others, but backing down weakly if someone challenged him. This role was key. He and his Aunt Bobbi had rehearsed this many times. Vetinari must seem adequate but controllable. He had good ideas, but wouldn't fight hard for them. He must act like a malleable young man, yet not a fool. 

Part of his act was his appearance. He hated it when Bobbi told him he must get rid of his beard, and convinced her that a weak beard and mustache was better. Every morning he carefully scissored his chin to look patchy, and the upper lip to look weedy. At intervals the beard was a little too long. It would be a great pleasure to groom himself properly again.

He wore assassin's black, but dusty and a bit too large as if he hadn't quite grown into them. The soles of his shoes were cracked a bit.“Never be quite in fashion, but not disgraceful,” Bobbi had said, many years ago when they'd first plotted. 

“Go to as many parties as you can, listen to the men, and dance with the girls. You need to be less austere,” she told her tall frowning nephew.  
“If you don't act like a red-blooded man they won't pick you,” he was told.

“Dance well. It's good for coordination and flare. Girls like a firm partner. Take care to talk with your dinner partner, no matter how old and disagreeable he or she may be, and do not favor anyone.”

“Do I kiss the girls' hands and entreat them into conservatories,” he'd asked, amused.  
“Yes, from time to time. Watch the others. Treat the girls most respectfully until you get them alone, and then only tease them.”

“I don't know how to tease!”

She scowled. “Do you want to control the city? Learn. Kiss hands, foreheads, ears; flatter the young ladies and leave them flushed. When they go back to the party, act knowing, or too innocent, or sultry.”

“I don't do sultry!”  
“Well, act self-satisfied. Not like a rake who's disheveled them, but—like a man happy to be with a woman.” She studied him.  
“You don't want women, do you? Is it men?”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean, I do like women, I don't like men.” 

“Mostly I don't want anybody.” He laughed. “Maybe I'll get a dog. I like them.”  
“Havelock! You are not listening. You must be a normal man who is a bit weak in character, but manly all the same.”She paused.

“You need to spend some time at Mrs. Cleo's.”  
“Gods, no! A whorehouse?”  
“We are going to re-brand them as 'houses of negotiable affection. Now do be quiet. You don't have to do anything except be seen going in, discreetly. Tell the girl she can get some rest, pay her well. Get her to laugh with you for a little bit, make the bed squeak, so they can hear you. Stay an hour, leave. You should go once a week.”

He nodded. It was his decision to vary his the days and times of his arrivals and the ways he came to Mrs. Cleo's. Once he had even come at six in the morning, seriously annoying the staff.

He'd taken so many steps over the years. Although he took enough assassin commissions, he had only accepted those out of the city. They left him comfortable. But he'd started a bit of deception with a little import-export business, three ships to Klatch and around the Circle Sea. He sold harmless children's trinkets and toys, and received bales of coarse cloth, dark colors, which he sold to the Spiteful Sisters of Seven-Handed Sek, for their students' uniforms.

He let drop in anonymous ears the rumor that the import-export was a front for smuggling jewels into the city without paying any custom tax. The substance of his ostensible appointment with the Patrician that morning was to complain about excise-men trying to interfere with his trade. The point was to leave him looking venal, and not quite competent to handle a little bribery.

The Rats Chamber was quieter now, as men began to stare at serious candidates. Eyes started to turn in his direction, and he knew his long preparations were paying off. His role now had been prescribed in, of all things, a children's book. Bobbi had sent it to him without remarks. The little camouflage book had sometimes been sold as a children's book, too. 

This book was “WINEEEE,” by an Uncle Rebus,* and besides word puzzles (he had lifted his eyebrows at 'THODEEPUGHT,' and others as simple), contained the tale of a rabbit who was not too bright but tricky, and begged his enemy not to cast him into a thorn patch which would obviously hurt him.

Young, weak, easily dissuaded, someone who clearly was easy to lead—and look at those clothes. He would obviously use the Patricianship for filling his own pockets, but that was fine. As long as he didn't use it for killing and torturing people, it was more than fine.

“Havelock.” Lord Venturi spoke. “We want you to consider assuming the role of the Patrician. Of course, it is a heavy burden, and we will always advise you whenever you need it.”

He nodded his head, presenting them with what seemed to be a worried frown, biting his lip, and said, “This is a high honor, Lords, and I accept it. I will certainly do the best I can for Ankh Morpork, I assure you.”

They left, discussing plans for his enrobing tomorrow. When he had closed the door to the Oblong Office, and asked the maid to turn a small office into a bedroom, without any of Snapcase's furniture or extravagances, he leaned back in the chair, and thought, “born and bred in that briar patch, born and bred.” **  
Tomorrow he would start growing out his beard again.

**Author's Note:**

> *Uncle Rebus is a conflation of Uncle Remus stories about weak but tricky B'rer Rabbit, and a rebus. Forestalling anyone who thinks B'rer Rabbit is too American, not to say Roundworld, the tales about a trickster rabbit actually go back to Howandaland.
> 
> **the rebuses are “win with ease, and “deep in thought.”


End file.
